


Looking at you, Kid

by pernickety



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, psycho killer!tom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 15:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1694006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pernickety/pseuds/pernickety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Tom is a serial killer of women. </p><p>I am so sorry. This is in no way based on anything that might be considered reality. Or sanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looking at you, Kid

Her heart is beating fast, frantically, adrenaline rushing through her arteries. I feel her pulse under my fingers. She seems more animal that human now. Her body convulses under mine. Hands clench, fingers claw uselessly at my skin. I am exhausting her. Her strength is waning, but she still tries.

Suddenly every muscle in her contracts, her thighs press my hips almost painfully hard, her eyes are wide, her mouth contorted in a silent scream and then she relaxes. She collapses into my arms and sleeps.

Le grand mort.

I hold my grip on her throat a few moments longer to make sure she is gone. Then I remove my hands and inspect the bruises on her neck.

She is beautiful. Now even more so than before.

During her struggle she scraped her elbow on the concrete floor. I wipe the blood off her skin, fold up the handkerchief and put it in my pocket taking care not to get any of her DNA on my favourite jacket.

After jotting down a few notes – verisimilitude of my death scenes is a point of pride - I arrange her body like the others. The body facing East, her blonde hair forming a halo around her head and a single white feather between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. A bastardized version of a druid ritual I read about somewhere. Nothing to do with my religious beliefs, you understand. I am but an aesthete.

I take off my gloves and drop them in the bin on my way to rejoin the party. My cheeks are still burning with the excitement of the deed. The other guests assume my glow springs from a baser source and I answer the winks and nudges with a knowing smile.

A gentleman does not kill and tell. Natch.

Shortly before dawn I pick up a girl and we go back to hers. She’ll live. We were seen together.

Fame, social standing and the right school go far in extending the buffer between oneself and public humiliation and possibly prison, but a Cctv footage is stretching it a bit. I don’t want to call in those kinds of favours until it is absolutely necessary.

When I look into this girl’s eyes, when I touch her skin, all I can think about is… What was her name again? I remember her telling me as we walked between the oaks down to the little stream where she now lies. Was it Brittany? Georgia? Devon? Something geographical. 

We make love – though it would be closer to the truth to say we fuck – on her sitting room floor. Her flat is in a state. There’s a dust bunny caught in her hair. It’s not dirty per se, just slightly neglected. With sex to match. 

I’ll finish up inside her and take the tied off condom with me. I make a habit out of not leaving traces. I chose her because she has no fingernails to scratch me with, is far too timid to pull my hair and far, far too plain to ever be believed should she tell her friends who spend the night. 

She walks me to the door. The look on her face is almost pathetically grateful. I kiss her again. Slowly and deeply. Her body sinks against mine. I’ve got this one. She’ll follow me down any dark alley.

 

Some other night.


End file.
